


i'll use you as a warning sign.

by howkylocanyougo



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Episode VIII: The Last Jedi (2017)
Genre: Hux is Bad at Feelings, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kylux - Freeform, M/M, Supreme Leader Hux - Freeform, kylo is also kind of bad at feelings, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-28 23:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13914765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howkylocanyougo/pseuds/howkylocanyougo
Summary: prompt from @softkyluxkinks:"When Ren feels his mother peacefully pass away into the Force, he starts to question his purpose and if any of it was really worth it. Deciding it would be easier to run away from his problems, he leaves only a short message to Hux that this First Order, and by extension the galaxy, is his. Hux should be happy, it's everything he ever wanted. But the longer Ren's gone, the more he realizes that without him it all mean's nothing. Hux vows to find him and either bring him back or stay with him."may add a later chapter to discuss kylo's actual feelings regarding the death of his mother, as i just ran out of room/time for this installment to delve into it!





	i'll use you as a warning sign.

**Author's Note:**

> directly c/p'ed from tumblr, so sorry if the format is a little wonky! really just wanted to get it posted. i'll try to go in and fix it when i can!

    Hux was raised in the death throes of an empire. For him, there has always been one path -- that of  _progress_ , a continual upward climb. He had been forged in the fires of the past, run through the crucible to be crafted into a tool crafted for one purpose, and one alone: leading the galaxy into a new age. All around him, he has seen it -- the evidence of the New Republic’s  _failures_  in regards to the citizens. The planets that starve while they bicker in endless circles, never taking  _action._  That’s what the galaxy needs -- strong, decisive action. He remembers Sloane’s words:  _an iron fist in a leather glove._  Someone to pull all the strings, to gather all the leashes, to bring  _order_  back to the people. Isn’t that what he’s always believed? Isn’t that what they’ve always stood for? The word is even in their name: the First  _Order._

    Kylo Ren has always been a particular type of chaos; he trailed it in his wake like a storm passing through, leaving destruction and fear and death behind him. A masked horror of a man, nightmare incarnate in tattered robes -- until recently. Recently, with that mask destroyed, with his face, marred by that wretched scar that marked him as having failed. How terrible, Hux had mused at the time, to have to wear such a thing for life. Some small part of him had considered it deserved. Some even smaller part of him had raged at the fact that even  _that_  had done nothing to diminish the man’s odd beauty, the regal look of him. Bred from royalty, and the looks of it too; he’s not  _jealous_ , though it always seemed to him in poor taste, this cosmic joke, that someone who looked like Ren should hide himself away beneath a mask. 

    ( And a smaller part, still, had crowed with delight that he was one of the few privy to knowing what he looked like beneath said mask -- not that he can claim as much any longer. )

    There is not, and never has been, room for Ren’s brand of chaos in the organization, in the grand  _plan_. And there  _is_  a plan; he knows it by rote, designed large sections of it with his own hand, his every breath dedicated to carrying it out -- and Ren had simply never  _fit_. Always too much, too loud, too unpredictable; the man had been a hazard to himself, and everyone around him. His temper was infamous, the consequences of which were sometimes deadly, and otherwise simply  _expensive._  And when he had taken up the mantle of Supreme Leader in the wake of Snoke’s death, Hux had been certain that would be the end of it all. All his hard work, waylaid, everything he has dedicated his entire life to destroyed in one fell swoop, all because the man has never, and would never  _listen_ , always thought his own ideas superior to all input from others. Hux had been livid.  _Harmed_ , even. Ren, in his instability, had  _thrown_  him. 

    Hux should have killed him when he had the chance. He knows that; so what had given him pause, truly? What had stopped him from pulling his blaster, from slipping the glove from his hand, pulling the trigger, and ridding himself of the one flaw in the design?

    ( It does not bear thinking on, and so he does not think on it; rather, he calls it a foolhardy hesitation, and vows he would never allow himself to hesitate in such a way again. It had nearly cost him everything. )

    The hallways of the  _Supremacy_  are quiet; the throne room equally so. Only Hux’s boots break the silence, the steady, measured clip of his walk as familiar as breathing. The hush, though --  _that_  is unnerving. Not unexpected, truly, but...

    He’s still waiting for the punchline.

    Because it’s a joke, isn’t it? It has to be. Dangle everything in front of little Armitage, and watch him jump for joy, watch him click his heels with glee, before  _snatching it away._  That’s the sort of thing Ren would find humorous, Hux has no doubt. And yet, it hasn’t happened. Days passed. Now weeks, and there’s still no sign of the Force User’s return. No evidence he intends to come back, tail tucked or otherwise. Hux has spent the time settling into his new position; their hunt for the remaining member of the rebels has been surprisingly effective. With the loss of their General, they had quickly fallen into disarray. Oh, they’d attempted to rally -- Dameron, their de facto leader, has still managed to escape their grasp. Still trying to rout them with every breath, Hux knows; but his resources are dwindling. He can run, he can hide -- but he will be caught. 

    Hux will take particular pleasure in ridding the galaxy of that nuisance.

    Everything is tying up quite neatly; better than expected, even, and Hux ought to be exultant. This, this is everything he  _deserves_ , the anticipated outcome, the  _correct_  outcome. History will read that he is the one who brought the galaxy to heel, that he is the one that brought order and prosperity where there had been none -- fixing the mistakes of the New Republic, lauded for his accomplishments.  _He deserves this._

    So why isn’t he satisfied?

    He paces the room, from viewport to throne to viewport again, hands balled into fists. He knows the answer, and  _loathes_  it. Because for all this, all that he has, all that he is doing, accomplishing, it’s still  _wrong_ ; he has fought for every square inch, has bloodied his hands on more than one occasion, doing anything that needed done to get where he is. He has scraped and clawed his way to the top -- or  _had_ , until that  _note._  And then...it had simply been  _handed_  to him upon a silver platter, by the one man who has always stood as a rival. In recent days, Hux has wondered about that -- their  _enmity_. The bitter words, the sharp, snapping remarks, and he sees more and more what had been in play: with Snoke out of the way, and Hux in his seat, with time for reflection, Hux has a better view of it, the way they had been manipulated, pieces on a board. Set in opposition, not of their own volition, not even of their own true dislike for each other -- but because Snoke had decided it would be so. 

    And then Ren had simply --  _left_. 

    Is it closure, then, that he seeks? That seems...silly.  _Soft._  Because despite Snoke’s best intentions, they had not always been fully opposed. At times they had...aligned in quite pleasurable ways. Perhaps, too, that had been part of what had been so appalling about the seizure of power -- the way Ren had snatched it from his grasp, so tantalizingly close. After all, it had always been  _Ren_  who seemed comfortable with  _kneeling_  to others. And perhaps the mantle had been too heavy upon his shoulders -- perhaps he truly had not been suited to leadership. Hux himself wears the burden fine -- it fits him as well as his tailored gloves, as well as his uniform, a second skin. He should be  _happy,_ especially without the complications of reigning Ren in, the difficulties of dealing with him.

    But he is not. It’s a hard thing to admit, a hard pill to swallow. He has everything he has fought for, everything he has ever dreamed of, victory at his fingertips, the galaxy in the palm of his hand.  _Supreme Leader Hux_ ; the title he’s wanted, the title that’s sat bitter on his tongue for  _years_ , his at last. 

     _Why isn’t he happy?_

    The days come, and the days go.

    No word from Ren. And why should there be? He has probably made like his uncle, taken up the old Jedi tradition of exiling himself to some remote corner of the galaxy, there to rot and fade into obscurity. It’s what he ought to do, if he’s smart. After all, just because he’s walked away from the fight doesn’t mean that the fight will forget about him -- and if some Resistance-loyal dog found him, they’d be all too happy to string him up, parade him through the streets like a prize. Try him for his crimes, perhaps; or maybe there’d be an  _accident_ that amounts to little more than summary execution. But surely the galaxy would be buzzing about it; word would have reached them, had the mighty Kylo Ren, scourge of the galaxy, been laid so low.

    ( Is he trying to reassure himself of Ren’s well-being? Perish the thought. )

    The weeks come, and the weeks go, until it has been months, and no word.

    Hux’s days have become routine. Like clockwork, he rises, he showers, he dresses. There are videos to record, negotiations to be held, meetings to attend, paperwork to delegate and sign -- a galaxy to run. And like a well-oiled machine, every cog, every gear falls seamlessly into place, one by one. He stands as the most powerful man in the galaxy --

    -- and Ren is still gone.

    Why does it irk him so, that the Force User should not be here to witness his success? Is he so petty that he need rub the Knight’s face in his accomplishments? 

    Well. Yes. He won’t lie to himself and say that isn’t the case. But it’s more than that, and he knows it, and he  _loathes_  it. It all culminates in one thought, one that comes out late one night as he’s poring over his datapad, glass of whiskey one hand:

    “How  _dare_  he?”

    The datapad falls listlessly from its balanced position on his knee and topples to one ice blue cushion as he stands abruptly, startling Millicent from her nap. She stares at him with wide, baleful eyes from a nearby chair, and he scowls, beginning to pace.

    “This -- this should have been my greatest triumph, but now it’s been given as a  _slight.”_ It’s easier to take offense than to consider the truth, and he does something Ren would be proud of, though the thought twists his stomach: he  _uses_  that anger, snatching up his datapad. “It’s an insult that will not stand. I could have obtained this position without his  _help_ , and I’ll have him know it.” 

    Millicent does not answer; she simply stretches, hops from her perch, and slinks off to find a  _quieter_  resting place. In the early hours of a new day cycle, Hux sends out an order -- one he hopes he will not regret.

    That evening, the Knights come to him; like a flock of dark birds, they gather in the throne room. Though Kylo had left, many of them had stayed -- Hux cannot fathom why. Perhaps one of them seeks to depose him; perhaps they simply have nowhere else to go, lost without their Master. They have no seen much use since the Force User’s departure -- Hux, himself, cannot find it in himself to fully trust them. Even now, the impassivity of their masks is unnerving, and though he shows nothing of his unease, he knows all too well they can likely  _sense_  it. Hux draws himself up, chin lifting, imperious. 

    “I have decided that the deserter Kylo Ren cannot be left at large. He holds too much highly classified information, and is a threat to the Order so long as he remains free. I want him found.”

    The Knights stir, but Hux continues, undeterred -- as if if he does not get the words out now, he may never bring himself to try again.

    “He is to be located, and his location is to be directly brought to me. No other. Do not engage him. Do not attempt to contact him. Do not in any way make him aware that he is being tracked. He is a flight risk, and is likely armed and dangerous.” He inclines his head, finally, a grudging show of respect. “ --- I entrust this task to you, because I know of no others capable of undertaking it.”

    There is no verbal response. He does not anticipate one. The Knights have never spoken to him, and he does not expect that to change; perhaps that is why he’s so startled when, on the verge of dismissal, a voice cuts in. Crackling, discordant; a vocoder, just like their Master’s, making it impossible to tell what gender, what species, even, the owner of the voice might be.

    “Will you kill him? When you find him?”

    The entire room goes still; as if they are all holding their breath. Hux stares at the figure as if he’s been slapped, and they step forward, dark robes whispering.

    “Will you kill him?”

    The demand comes again, more insistent; and Hux cannot determine what answer they hope to hear most. Are they still so loyal to the man that they would disobey their Supreme Leader to protect him? Or so angry at their abandonment that they wish nothing more than to see him killed? 

    What else can he do? He opts for honesty.

    “...no. The immediate intention is not his death, if such can be avoided.”

    The figure stays still, and he can feel that he is being studied from behind that mask -- and whatever is found, it seems to appease the Knight, who dips their head in assent, and slips back into formation with their fellows, silent once more.

    When he dismisses them, they move as one, gone as quickly, as completely as they had come, like shadows chased by the morning light; but in their absence, the throne room simply feels large and empty, and Hux quits it in favor of returning to his office to work. There is always plenty to be done.

    Hux doesn’t know quite when he gives up on hearing anything back; the days have begun to blur together in an endless stream of too much work, too little sleep. The routine becomes all there is -- and the days come, and the days go, and the galaxy rebuilds under his guiding hand. He should be happy -- but how can he spare the time?

    It’s late in the night cycle when the message comes. Sleep hasn’t found him, yet, though Millicent has. She’s curled in his lap, a warm, comfortable weight. She’s long since given up trying to lecture him into bed, her mewling complaints ceasing when he’d ordered the lights off. It leaves his face pale, awash in blue light from his datapad, and there’s a headache that never seems to stop. He rubs at his eyes, flicks over to the message.

    There is no text -- only a series of coordinates intended to be plotted into a star chart. He checks the sender; an unfamiliar, but recognizable user. One of the Knights.

    Hux’s heart goes still, and suddenly, he is very awake.

    Millie protests his departure from his bed, but curls in the warm spot he’s left, and seems content enough with that. His steps are quiet, bare feet on a cold floor, padding through from his bedroom to the connected office. His star chart flickers to life, systems spinning, turning, different sections of the galaxy painting his skin in light as he reaches out.

    As if in a dream, Hux inputs the coordinates from the message. Immediately, the chart responds, zooming in. Stars and planets alike rush by, until there is only one, the light of it reflected in Hux’s eyes as he stares, transfixed.

    There.

    Ren is there.

 

* * *

 

    There are worse planets to spend a life in self-imposed exile upon, Hux supposes, though he can’t help a flicker of irritation. Pillio -- one of their own planets. ( But then, most planets are his now. ) Ren has been under his nose this entire time, and Hux didn’t even  _know._

A sea wind makes his jacket flutter, and he marches across the sandy shore, past coral still brightly colored despite the sun beating down on them. There is only one place here that Hux imagines the man might go.

    Only ruins remain of what had once been the Emperor’s observatory; long since destroyed by Imperials trying to cover their tracks, it is little more than a hollowed out shell, and even the sea winds haven’t carried all of the ash away yet. It blackens the barely intact ramp, the still-standing door frame, which now stands empty. If nothing else, the infrastructure had been incredibly sturdy, it seems.

    Sunlight filters in where old windows shattered, broken glass left upon the floor crunching beneath his boots; pieces of old boxes lie scattered around. Some still look relatively intact; either their contents were not important, or the person trying to clear this place out had been  _sloppy._ He pays them no mind; they’re not why he’s here.

    There is a figure seated on one such box further in; hooded, but Hux dares think he might recognize the hulking shape of him anywhere. He comes to a stop just outside of the dappled sunlight that spills likes golden ink across the other, shimmering with dust motes and the ash he’s kicked up. His hands move behind his back, and he falls into the familiar stance he’d perfected as little more than a child. He always had been destined for command.

    “You didn’t run.”

    For a long moment, there’s no answer, no response of any kind; and then the shape is moving, but slowly. The hood comes down. 

    In the sunlight, Ren’s eyes look a warm shade of brown, honey-flecked and lovely; his hair has grown slightly longer, and Hux can see from here that it’s pulled back into a high bun, with small braids on either side of his head leading back into it, though some curls have escaped, falling into his face. Messy, even now; but somehow still more put-together than Hux can ever remember having seen him. Ren doesn’t smile -- but he doesn’t frown, either, only tips his head in a curious fashion, as if he’s trying to figure something out.

    “Should I have?”

    The question seems out of place, the answer obvious, and Hux is spitting it out before he can second-guess himself.

    “Most intelligent defectors would.” A pause, and it’s Hux’s turn for curiosity. “You knew I was coming.” Not a question -- a statement. The unspoken  _why_  is what he wants answered, after all.

    “Yes.”

    “And you didn’t run.”

    Ren’s lips tilt, and he has the audacity to look  _amused_. Hux scowls in response.

    “No. Apparently not.” His arms open in a wide gesture, as if to say,  _Here I am._

    Hux’s hands clench into fists behind his back, and Ren’s focus narrows down to Hux, and Hux alone once more -- as if he can sense Hux’s growing ire. He can, and Hux knows it, and Hux hates it. Ren’s hands drop to either side of himself, palms resting on the surface of the stack of boxes he’s claimed as a seat, and his fingers curl over the edge. 

    “To answer the question you  _actually_  are asking -- I assumed that if you were seeking me out personally, it must be something important.”

    Ren’s eyes fix on him, and he waits. And waits.

    Hux’s lips part -- and then close again. Rather than providing an answer, he counters with another question.

    “What are you doing here?”

    “Sitting.”

    Impatience flares; insufferable creature, he hasn’t changed at all, and this, this is a waste of time, he should have had the other clapped in Force-nulling irons, should have --

    Ren’s hands raise, peaceable, and he looks -- almost  _apologetic._  

    “...I was seeking understanding.”

    “Of  _what?”_  Despite the peaceful gesture, Hux’s anger has been stoked; that isn’t a  _reason_ to have run away, to have left with no word, nothing but a note, a message, not so much as a proper explanation, a  _goodbye_  ---

    Hux swallows the hurt; that,  _whatever_  that is, does not belong here. His words are snappish, clipped as he continues. “What was so important that you had to  _leave?”_

The confusion is clear on Ren’s face, and somehow, that hurts  _worse_ ; as if he had not even considered Hux’s feelings on the matter. ( There shouldn’t  _be_  any feelings  _to_  consider. )

    “...I thought you would be happy.”

    It feels like all of the breath leaves him at once; like he’s been punched in the gut. Ren isn’t being  _fair_ ; somehow he’s the one that sounds kicked, now, and there’s something terrible and soft on his face that makes Hux want to slap him, punch him, anything to make it go away. He can’t stand it, or the way it makes him ache to witness.

    He opens his mouth to snap that he  _is_  happy, that this has nothing to do with happiness anyway -- but it’s not true. Even as his tongue moves to form the words, he knows it’s a lie, and knows too well that Ren will hear it for what it is if he speaks it aloud. He does not.

    Ren’s boots hit the ground, ash puffing up beneath him. He takes a step forward, and Hux takes a quick step back, reaching for his blaster, snatching it from his holster, leveling it. 

    Ren halts in his advance, but his eyes stay trained on Hux.

    “Why did you come here?”

    His voice is too soft, and Hux hates it, and hates him; he should have pulled the trigger in the throne room, should have ended all of this before any of  _this_  could have happened. His finger curls around the trigger.

    “You --  _ruined_  everything. Like you always do. You ruin everything you touch -- ”

    Ren doesn’t move.

    Hux squeezes the trigger.

    For a long moment, neither of them move; and then Hux’s blaster goes flying, clattering uselessly against a box, thrown by his own still-gloved hand.

    “You ruined me.”

    His breath comes out in a rush, and both hands come up to his face, as if he could somehow catch the words, and force them back down his own throat. He feels like he’s suffocating, like he’s being choked all over again.

    Ren’s hands find him, and he  _flinches_  -- but they’re  _gentle_ , and that is somehow so much worse. Being in his arms again is dizzying and terrible and everything feels wrong, and everything feels  _right._  

    “You’re not happy.”

    Hux chokes out a laugh, one that Ren doesn’t join him in. It’s almost hysterical, really --  _happy._  When has the word ever applied to him?

    “You took everything from me. How could I possibly be happy?”

    Ren is trying to pull back, trying to look at him, but Hux presses forward more, won’t let him see his face -- his fingers dig into his arms, a bruising grip.

    “I gave you -- ”

    “You  _took everything.”_

Ren is quiet, considering this; the only thing he took with him, when he left, had been himself --

    Realization is a shock of cold water, and his arms wind around the man holding onto them.

    A shudder races down Hux’s spine, and he tries to tell himself it’s revulsion. It isn’t. His head tips, falling onto Ren’s shoulder as the other holds him, quiet.

    “Come back.”

    “No.”

    The answer is so immediate that Hux needs a further moment to comprehend what’s been said. His brows come together, and it’s his turn to lean back, to look up at Ren’s face. Outside of the spilling sunlight, his eyes look nearly black, shadowed and slightly averted. He looks like a man haunted; a child’s ghost story, an empty house, creaking floorboards and unfinished business. 

    “What?”

    Ren takes a breath; seems uncomfortable. “I said...no. I won’t come back.”

    “Why not?”

    The demand is sharp, and just as immediate as Ren’s denial -- and perhaps just slightly  _desperate._

    “Hux...”

     _“Why not?”_

    “Because it’s monstrous!” Ren’s voice is suddenly loud, and Hux jumps slightly in response; but he settles quickly, staring up as a war of emotions flickers across Ren’s face. He’s always been so beautifully, horribly expressive. “Because -- the things we did, the things we’ve done --”

    “Were  _necessary_  -- ”

    “Were they?” Ren cuts him off; then repeats himself, softer. “ _Were_  they?”

    Hux’s jaw tightens, his teeth grinding slightly. “...the galaxy is  _improving_. There is  _stability._  Improved trade routes. Better food distribution. Commerce is thriving, the economy is recovering, people are -- ”

    “Afraid.”

    “As they  _should_  be!” Hux’s patience snaps, and he struggles out of Ren’s arms; the man lets him go, albeit reluctantly. “As they should be. If fear is the price of  _order_  -- ”

    “Then it comes at too high of a price.”

    Hux’s stomach churns, his lip curling in something like disgust.

    “You sound like one of  _them.”_  

    “That’s not -- ”

    “Then  _come back with me.”_

    Ren’s jaw works, and his eyes are fixed on Hux, studying him. 

    “Stay with me.”

    “What?”

    Ren gestures, emphatic. “ _Stay_  with me.”

    “Are you  _mad?_  Has the sun out here baked your brains? I am the Supreme Leader, the most powerful man in the galaxy and -- ”

    “And you’re  _miserable._  When did you last -- sleep? Or eat? Or, stars forbid,  _smile?”_

    Hux lets out an astonished sound. “How is any of that relevant?”

    Ren’s face falls, and he looks so --  _sad_  that Hux has to turn his eyes away. It makes something inside of him ache, and his mind turns the question over, and over, and -- he can’t remember. He can’t remember the last time he truly smiled; not since before Ren left, certainly.

    “...stay with me.”

    Ren’s voice is soft again, unbearable so, and that ache deepens into a fissure so wide, Hux feels that he’ll be swallowed whole by it. He takes a steadying breath.

    “...I can’t do that. The galaxy is just now returning to a state of prosperity. Unlike you, I cannot simply run off and do as I please.” 

    “We burned planets.”

    “Under Snoke’s orders.”

    “I killed my father.”

    “As I did mine.”

    “So many innocent people -- ”

    “Unfortunate. But what use is there in wallowing in your regrets? What is done, is done. What answers do you hope to find here -- ” Hux’s gesture is a sweeping one, taking in the burned out wreckage around them. “ -- that you could not find at my side?”

    Ren’s lower lip is tucked between his teeth -- a nervous habit. Hux  _has_  him, and he knows it. His voice drops, lower, softer. 

    “The best way you can atone for what you’ve done is to come back, and help me help the people and the planets who are left recover from this tiresome war.” Hux’s hand extends, gloved hand out in offer.

    “Come back, Ren. Come home with me.”

    Sunlight warms only sections of Ren’s skin now, broken fragments, small, dappling sunspots like stars speckling his skin; and then he moves, out of the pool of sunshine completely, and takes Hux’s hand, brings it up to his own face, eyes closing.

    Hux moves closer, head tipping, his nose brushing Ren’s, their breaths mingling.

    “Come home,” he says again.

    “Yes,” Ren responds, finally, barely a whisper between them.

    Warmth curls through him, and in the fraction of a second before their lips meet, Hux  _smiles._


End file.
